Your Kiss

The mirror shows me a tired child. My black mascara smudged down one cheek, eyeliner leaving a trail across my face. The vasaline I smeared across my bleeding lips looks like cheap lip gloss. I rub my lips together to dispel it, throw water on my face and start again.

When I return I feel I have the strength to face you. My cheeks glow softly, my lashes flutter like the ghosts of two butterflies. My face looks soft, mysterious. It is a rare moment of beauty, and I clutch at it. You, however, do not notice any difference. As I glide past you watch me go, watch my skirts brush past your knees.

I find my table and sit, spreading my turquoise skirts around me. My friends resume their bright chatter, resume watching the hall for anyone worth watching.

It is then that I feel a presence behind me; I stiffen at a hand on my shoulder, warm against my neck. You take my hand and pull me to my feet. Lead me away from my eagerly watching friends.

We sway and step to the unrelentless sound of the CD player. I am so aware of your hand on my lower back that I imagine I can feel the heat through the thin material of my gown. Your eyes are dark and focused, gazing at my nose? My chin? My lips, I realise. I lean forward ever so slightly as you brush my lips with yours.